


Percival Graves is Not a Dark Wizard

by cyndrat



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Gen, Various Auror OCs, so many random OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndrat/pseuds/cyndrat
Summary: a 5+1 AU… in which Graves is not the Director of Magical Security and head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at MACUSA. In fact, he doesn’t work for MACUSA at all. So why is he so regularly in the building, or near their raids, or slipping away from a scene they’re investigating?The answer some of Clarinda Barillon's aurors come up with is that he’s a Dark Wizard, obviously, and that he’s the real cause of slightly less than half of their troubles, probably - not that they’ve managed to pin anything on Graves yet.Clary hesitates to commit to the idea. She’s Director of MagSec, head of the DMLE, of course she’s suspicious of the man who keeps appearing around her investigative teams, but she refuses to label him the way her aurors have because assuming things turns out badly, eventually, and because he’s helpful, sometimes, and mostly because no one’s observed him doing anything definitively dark or illegal. (Yet.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello! I have quite accidentally launched myself into the depths of the Fantastic Beasts fandom, which means I need to write fic. Obviously.  
so yeah, ideas happened, and I figured I could string em together and try my hand at a 5+1! because trying new things is good for you!  
also, I think it's a thing going forwards: if there's a character in my works who can go by the nickname 'Clary' then she's approximately the same OC as the others - i.e. Clarinda Barillon, Canadian-American auror, is approx the same person as Clarence Minola, from my Voltron fic(s).  
art for me by me will eventually be linked, because sometimes one has to be their own most supportive fan

Clarinda Barillon usually keeps one eye on her aurors. They’re wonderful people - clever, highly skilled, well trained… and nosy, loud busybodies who should be quite busy with work.

She leaves her office quietly, walking on the edge of the bullpen towards the remaining functioning coffee machine. A few voices tone down at her appearance, but the Senior Aurors don’t typically bother anymore. That’s quite fine. She knows they’ll quiet at her glare when she eventually gives it. Besides, she now has an opportunity to hear what they’re chattering about today.

Hm, it sounds like Goldstein and Hinkly are actually working at the moment, discussing their respective cases every now and then. The Junior Aurors do tend to be better at staying focused on their tasks, even if it comes mostly out of an eagerness to please.

The Senior Aurors, however, have entirely lost that eagerness. They know very well that they nearly have to be the cause of a Major Investigation to be cast out of the department altogether. It’s a pity, in a sense, because her Seniors have each reached the point where personal reprimands are more effective than threats. Making threats is so much easier. A personal reprimand always gets Clary a little too personally involved. Which is kind of the point, but still…

There’s a mention of a name that drags her rather abruptly back to the moment. She sighs. Picks a grey mug and fills it with the wave of a hand, and then she turns.

She takes care to wear a fairly neutral expression, though she only gets a few steps into the grid of desks before people start whispering urgently and shushing each other. But the main chatterboxes haven’t quite noticed yet. Goodwin is perched on top of Mallow’s desk, Weiss leaning against her shoulder, their backs to Clary. Neither of them pick up on the way the room is swiftly quieting, and neither do Mallow or-

“Oh shit,” Holcomb says rather loudly.

Goodwin’s words trail off as she turns quickly. “Hey Boss,” she says. The greeting is cheerful, if a touch wary.

Clary smiles, meeting each of the four Senior Aurors’ gazes for a good long moment. “Tell me, what has Percival Graves done recently to be the hottest topic of discussion?”

_Percival Graves._

A brilliant man, as clever as her best aurors and just as skilled, she suspects. He comes from old money, from an old name, and Merlin, but Clary would do just about anything to have him amongst the ranks of her aurors.

She isn’t certain if said aurors feel the same - they’ve always acted distrustful and vigilantly suspicious when Graves is around them, though that is, likely, in part because of the way he regularly wanders into their investigations and almost casually shows them up. And then they come back here and sit around discussing him until Clary puts them back to work, their ideas about him building on each other and getting more and more far-fetched.

Goodwin and Holcomb have been convinced, for coming up on three weeks now, that the man practices the Dark Arts. They keep attempting to persuade the other aurors, citing strange instances and swearing they’ve seen him doing atrocious things, but Weiss at least is smart enough to question such accounts until they’re broken down to the much simpler reality.

Clary doesn’t necessarily _trust_ the man herself, but she doubts that he goes off consorting with basilisks and casting Unforgivable Curses every other day.

“He’s comin in for interrogation with Mallow,” Goodwin announces.

“Interrogation? What for?” Not that Clary knows every minute activity that goes on, but she should have heard if anyone had scheduled one of the interrogation rooms so late in the afternoon.

“Oh-” Holcomb says quickly, perhaps seeing the changing expression on Clary’s face and deciding to speak up. “Oh Boss, no, not interrogation, nah, just witness account statement, that’s all.” There’s an added _“This time,”_ in a barely audible tone that she chooses to ignore.

“I see… And when is Senior Auror Mallow expecting the man?”

Mallow takes the hint and straightens in his chair. “He’s due in, uh, nine minutes.”

Clary smiles, just a little too widely. “Excellent. You have three minutes to brief me, then.”

Instantly, Goodwin and Weiss are speaking. Loudly, and at the same time, and with strong emotion, and Clary has no hope of understanding either of the women. And- yes, there, Holcomb has joined in as well, making the group reaction quite a cacophony that somehow fills the entire room. Mallow covers his face with his palm, clearly taking slow breaths, like he’s wondering why he chooses to associate with the other three.

Clary clears her throat. The cries of opposition die quickly. She stares at each of them. “Are any of you capable of playing nice and being civil and unbiased with him? Hm? I’ll be taking him. Two minutes.”

Goodwin wilts, and Weiss pats her shoulder consolingly. Holcomb takes a few steps away, then turns back to pull Goodwin and Weiss off Mallow’s desk and drag them along to the next one over.

The remaining auror opens the folder on top of the pile in front of him and runs a finger down the page as he skims it, then flips the page… and then he just looks up, meeting Clary’s gaze with a sigh. “This morning we stormed that warehouse, as discussed. Caught four of our perpetrators, but one’a the Juniors reported that two others fled, right past where Graves was standing when the kid looked up. He shoulda got a good look at both of them. That’s… That’s really all.”

“Where did you arrange to take his statement?”

“Ah,” he says, staring blankly at her. “Holcomb,” he barks out, disrupting the whispered discussion the three others had retreated to have, “where’d you arrange-”

“I-3,” comes back, and Mallow sighs again.

“I will not take a witness statement in an interrogation room,” Clary says loudly, and sharp enough that she hopes the others will get the point. It doesn’t _matter_ that Graves has always been a little too present, a little too knowledgeable, a little too authoritative, a little too cooperative - this time he is a witness, and Clary will see that he is awarded the cordiality and comfort that MACUSA gives to all their witnesses. “Mallow, keep them-” She’s about to say _in line,_ but rethinks it as the whispers tentatively rise in volume again. “Keep them out of my way for an hour.”

“Sure Boss,” he says, sounding a little relieved at the simple task.

She nods in thanks and stalks towards the lift. Coffee in her hand and a firm expression on her face ensure that everyone leaves her be as she makes for the atrium. She’ll have to head Graves off, as the last he’d have known he was expected in one of the interrogation rooms, but it’s never difficult to pick out his powerful figure even in the disorder of the atrium with people going every which way.

Clary tends to be easy to see as well, she’s been assured. Something about the way she holds herself despite being shorter than more than half of her aurors, with an air of confidence and authority.

She chooses a place to stand and wait that is not quite out of the way, but neither in a path of heavy traffic, yet still visible from shortly inside the doors. Graves shouldn’t be long now, there’s only a few minutes remaining before the arranged time. She takes a sip of her coffee, tapping a warming charm on the mug with a finger. It wouldn’t do to let her last caffeine fix of the day go cold.

There’s a slight commotion near the doors. Like what tends to happen when someone who may or may not practice the Dark Arts and who is generally considered a Low Priority Suspicious Person enters the building.

Sure enough, moments later there is a man wearing a sweeping black coat striding in. His scarf looks several shades bluer in the atrium light than it sometimes does, but his gaze is as dark and focused as ever as he hones in on Clary and seems to ignore everyone else on his way to greet her.

She takes another sip as she waits, swirling her mug to ensure the sugar crystals stay mixed. She could do it with a simple spell, but she likes to watch the liquid swish and eddy.

“Good afternoon Director Barillon,” Graves says. He sounds quite unruffled, but the raising of a brow indicates a question.

“Mr Graves,” Clary replies without addressing his unspoken query, and turns neatly towards the lift. Graves follows, staying quiet as she greets Red and asks for the Aurors’ floor.

They stand in that continuing silence, Graves apparently content to leave his voice for the encounter he’s expecting with Mallow and Holcomb, and Clary quite comfortable to let him keep thinking that as the lift zooms along. It isn’t often that the man is successfully surprised after all, though her aurors do keep trying their best.

And speaking of her aurors, Mallow seems to have been doing a remarkable job of prodding them into temporary submission while Clary’d gone down to the atrium. As she steps out of the lift she sees that every single one of them currently in the room is sitting in a chair, pens and quills scratching softly, someone leaning across a desk to murmur to their neighbour now and then.

Perhaps she should leave him in charge of the bullpen more often, if the result is the lot of them being so well-behaved.

Ah- Maybe she should have said something to Graves. He’s moving as if to walk behind her and into the middle of the crooked grid of desks, his focus likely set where her senior aurors are appearing to be hard at work.

“Mr Graves?” Clary gestures towards her office, taking a step to remain standing carefully between Graves and her aurors. Holcomb and the others don’t need an opportunity to catch his attention properly and drag him into their midst.

Graves hesitates for a moment, glancing towards the aurors he’d been meant to meet with before settling his gaze on Clary and changing the direction of his movement. “I thought I was meeting with Aurors Mallow and Holcomb?” he says quietly. Clary hums and continues escorting him to her office. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought I would make it easier for them to keep themselves in check,” she explains. He looks vaguely amused as he turns to close the door behind him without a word from her. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, water?”

He raises his eyebrows. Clary takes a slow sip of her coffee, not deigning to react further until his mouth twists into a brief smile.

Then she sinks into her chair, setting her mug down. She only waits long enough for him to take a seat as well, then speaks. “Shall we get started then?”

Once again, he proves his cooperativeness with ease, launching into a cursory explanation of his presence near the warehouse and then describing exactly what he’d seen. Clary listens quietly, as the man doesn’t need much prompting by now, having been through the process more regularly than anyone else in New York. She’s pleased to hear the neutral, even positive way he speaks of her aurors, proving that they haven’t yet managed to alienate him from MACUSA, and he even offers praise for the Junior who’d attempted to give chase to the runners.

She glances over the pen and paper that are charmed to automatically transcribe her meetings; she can think of no additional questions, so she murmurs thanks.

The only item remaining is to deliver Graves to the sketch artists then, though she suspects they are just as wary as her aurors, and far too susceptible to believing some of the conspiracies Goodwin has cooked up.

“Do you mind if I do the sketches?” Clary is asking to be polite, really, and there’s a warning tone to her voice that she doesn’t particularly intend but neither does she regret.

Graves certainly wouldn’t know it, but she’d spent months doing sketches back when there was a turnover of multiple department heads during the time her Auror application had been under review. It’s been a few years - or fifteen - but she’s kept drawing as a hobby. Whatever she turns out will be just as skilled as the official sketch artists.

She reaches into a drawer, pulling out a book of bound white paper and a charcoal pencil. Graves is watching curiously, but when Clary looks at him expectantly, he begins an oral illustration of one of the escaped suspects. An _extensive_ oral illustration, as if he has a clear image of the two of them in front of him and at the same time as if he knows precisely what words to use to give Clary that same clear image.

Twenty minutes later, she’s heard him talk more than she ever has at once and she’s got two and half sketches on her desk. She drags the half sketch back - a rough, very preliminary drawing that is based more on Graves’ official statement than on his description of the middle-aged witch and wizard. The other two she spins about and slides nearer to him.

“Very good,” he says, though he’s raised his gaze from the sketches to Clary’s face, and she has the impression that he’s complimenting her skill at the same time that he’s approving the accuracy of her sketches. He leans back and folds his arms, not looking away yet.

She flashes him a small smile and hides her sketchbook and pencil back away in their drawer. “Now,” she says watching him as he watches her, “I believe that’s all, Mr Graves?”

His fingers tap against his arm, and he’s quiet for a long moment, and then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “That is all, Director Barillon.”

“Excellent. I’ll escort you back to the atrium, then.” They rise, nearly at the same time, and Clary gathers Graves’ statement and the two sketches, careful not to smudge them. She’ll pass them off to Holcomb, or perhaps the Junior he’d tapped and who had spotted Graves.

Graves opens the door, stepping out without bothering to invite her to go first. Clary follows, pulling the door shut as the wards reset, and she considers the sounds of the bullpen. She’d like to keep the papers in her hands within that team, and it might do Junior Auror McCutcheon good to take care of a witness statement and go by the sketch artists… but at the same time, she can hear Holcomb chatting away about something that is certainly not work related.

“Holcomb,” she calls, and the room silences for a moment before rising to a level of noise a little lower than it was just previously.

Clary starts walking towards the lift, Graves automatically falling in beside her. Holcomb pads over to her side, casting an expression she can’t quite see to the other man. Yes, a practice in civility should be quite reasonable.

“Mr Graves’ statement,” she says, holding the three papers out to her auror, “and sketches of the two that escaped your team.”

“Thank you Boss.” He sounds rather reserved. A glance sideways allows her to see an anxious twitch of his fingers. He stays quiet though, even as the three of them get into the lift and he shuffles a little further away than necessary, as if he thinks being too near to Graves will transfer something questionable or illegal to his person.

Oh well, Clary has high expectations that he’ll survive the trip to the atrium - the lift is already in motion after all, and she won’t force interaction in an enclosed space.

Besides, Graves has completed his witness duty. She could have let him make his way out of the building on his own, but escorting him personally is a minor task that never ceases to reassure and calm her aurors. Their wellbeing is, in a fashion, one of her priorities.

And as such… “Mr Graves,” she says as the lift settles to a stop at the atrium level. The man turns to face her. She offers him a pleasant expression. “Try to stay away from our investigations for a couple of weeks, hm? I’d rather close a few cases up before needing to deal with you and their gossiping again.”

He smiles, quick and not particularly sincere. “I’ll make efforts to avoid your generous hospitality, Director.”

There’s a strangled sort of sound from Holcomb in the corner, but neither Clary nor Graves turn to check on him. She can guess what her auror took from Graves’ statement; what _she_ took away is that he expressed agreement while careful not to make any promises.


	2. One of her Juniors-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought i'd offer a list of my Aurors, just in case anyone's curious. many of the names were created with the help of a name generator, something close to a year ago now, so i can't say i recall which generator precisely.
> 
> **Senior Aurors:** Arabella Fowler, Frey Goodwin, Cyprian Holcomb, Vortimer Mallow, Pike Reedham, Annie Weiss  
**Aurors:** Clemency Bell, Solomon Carter, Leonard Cullivan, Anthea Ellesmere, Penelope Janson, Raphael Prismall, Lark Raby, Sorrel Sherris, Calantha Timmeny, Grace Tulley  
**Junior Aurors:** Lilliana Calderon, Kyson Enakey, Tina Goldstein, Balthazar Hinkly, Eddie McCutcheon, Nicholas Nash

The news that something is wrong first comes to Clary not in the form of a charmed note, or someone knocking on the door and calling her name, but in the sound of footsteps landing heavy and frantic in the hallway.

It isn’t _ terribly _unusual to hear someone running in this building-

But she's in her MagSec office today, it’s a lot more work for just anyone to come and chatter at her in here, and the aurors have no reason to frequent this floor.

She signs off on the form in front of her. Flicks it away, grabs at the next.

It’s always possible whoever’s running where they shouldn’t isn’t coming to her-

The footsteps come to an abrupt stop before the sound of them can begin to quiet, and she can already envision skid marks on the marble floor just outside her office. She stifles a sigh.

Her door sweeps open, and she scans another form, signs it quickly. The more she can get through now before she’s actually interrupted the better, because goodness knows how long she’ll be pulled away from her paperwork responsibilities this time-

“Boss,” Weiss gasps out, boots falling heavy as she fairly careens into the room. And then she takes a deep breath, not that it does much to steady her breathing, and she waits to be acknowledged, and Clary almost wishes she would have gone right into it.

Because Weiss is usually very well composed.

Because she’s sprinted over, or so it seems, and Clary can’t decide what sort of thing has gone down this time.

“Tell me what’s happened,” she says, dropping her quill in its place. She raises her chin, finally, to look at Weiss, and-

Her auror’s chest is still heaving, and she wavers before setting her feet in a steadier pose. “He-” she starts, then pauses for another deep breath. “I mean- We don’t know if, if he meant- what was-”

Clary rises quickly, rounding the large desk with only a fleeting thought to spare for the files and reports still wanting her time.

Weiss is _ shaken. _ She’s usually the steadiest and most poised auror in any room. So for her to be in such an anxious state, something significant has happened.

Clary has the door close itself with a small gesture, then steps closer, tilting her head to meet Weiss’ gaze. “Breathe,” she orders, waiting a moment to let her do so, “and then tell me where I want to be first.”

“Hospital,” Weiss says, sounding decisive. “McCutcheon a-and Goodwin are- and-” She stops abruptly and shakes her head.

“Come on then,” Clary says, holding out her hand.

There are perks to being Director of Magical Security, one of those being a personal gap in the Anti-Apparition wards right in the office.

She isn’t sure if the perks quite outweigh the paperwork, which she twists about to give a lingering sheepish glance.

But the moment Weiss’ palm settles in hers, she’s refocusing, and twisting them away from her office and to Mercy Memorial’s bright lobby.

It _ is _ nice, afterall, that she doesn’t have to bother with the lift, and the Woolworth’s chaotic atrium, and fastidious department heads and busybodies who apparently enjoy spending their time loudly questioning why the Director is whirling away in her shirtsleeves without a word of notice.

There are certainly drawbacks - she can’t be supervising her aurors out in the field as much as she’d like, which means that when they get hurt she has to wait to hear about it from whichever of the team was deemed the messenger that time-

She can’t help feeling guilty about that.

Another perk, though, is that the hospital staff recognize her on sight, mostly, and not a one of them will stop her focused march right past the front reception, Weiss hurrying along half a step behind her.

The medi-wizard who usually ends up minding her aurors appears out of a healers’ station to stride at Clary’s side as if he’d been warned of her impending presence, and she affords him a brief glance.

“There’s no rush today,” he announces. “Your two are quite stable, full recovery expected with time and rest.” Several notes flutter through the air beside him, and he bats tiredly at a few that get a little too close to his face, but he doesn’t immediately send them away.

That’s a good sign, even apart from his calm summary.

Clary does tend to whirl into the hospital a fair bit more concerned than she needs to be, but this time one of her juniors is in a bed, and it’s McCutcheon, too - this’ll be the first time he’s had to be properly admitted since he started on. But if Healer Charles Fortier is calm enough to entertain notes following him down the hall as he escorts her, then he isn’t at all worried about the state of her aurors or their prescribed treatment.

“I’ve got to head to other patients Till, but yours are C-08 and C-11. I understand the aurors have some in CH-01 and CH-02, as well.”

She waves Weiss onwards, stopping and turning to the medi-wizard herself for just a moment. “Merci Charles,” she says, taking a slow breath.

He nods and turns about to head the other way, but twists back. “You might want to deal with the ones in Holding soon as you can Directrice, a few of your aurors seem awful jumpy.”

She offers him a tight smile that almost isn’t seen as he focuses in on his other patients.

Yes, she’ll get to the holding rooms before long. That will be as much to settle her aurors as to deal with whoever they’ve nabbed, but first she ought to catch up to Weiss.

Clary hurries down the hall, stopping at C-08 and stepping in, gaze falling to the bed.

It’s McCutcheon. The junior is tucked beneath an extra knit blanket and looking quite ill, face pale and especially thin as he shivers, and a dark red mark is spread across his cheek and temple. He is also clearly asleep, and Weiss is standing on the far side of his bed, going through a few pages of notes left for them. She glances up, but returns to the notes. Having been elected to retrieve Clary means she’ll have missed much of the treatment and discussion.

Weiss checks her wristwatch. “It’s been nearly ninety minutes since we first got here,” she announces, and flips back through the pages, humming at something while Clary approaches.

An hour and a half, it’s no surprise the kid is asleep.

“Tell me more?” Clary asks. Most important is how long he’ll be stuck in this room, but she’s curious to know if what injured him is what started that redness on his face.

“He’ll be completely recovered within thirty-six hours,” Weiss says quietly. She knows exactly where to start with her summary, even though Clary will end up seeing the Healers’ notes herself within the day. “Counter-curse was worked out forty-two minutes ago, dreamless draught administered just after I left, and he’s been asleep for half an hour, give or take.” She drops the notes to the side table, lets out a sigh and pushes her hair behind an ear. “If it’d taken us more than two hours to address the curse, recovery would be longer. Days, a week even.”

“What was it?” Clary’s aurors are at least as knowledgeable as the healers when it comes to curses, even if their knowledge is born from a different perspective. So if it took the lot of them forty minutes to identify the spell, she doesn’t want to think about how the smuggling ring might have learned of it. Except that is the sort of thing that will undoubtedly fall to her to think about.

“Graves said-”

_ “Graves?” _ Clary interjects. Interrupting her aurors is something she hates doing unless in dire circumstances, she’ll apologize to Weiss sometime soon, but still- “Percival Graves was brought in on this?”

Weiss is ringing her hands, gaze set somewhere past Clary so she doesn’t have to actually look at her. “He cast it,” she says quickly, her words running together.

Hold on. Hold _ on, _ Graves cast the curse that’ll have one of her junior aurors in the hospital for more than a day?

“He was,” Weiss starts, then stops. “Well, we’ve been waiting, we haven’t been able to talk to him yet, but he was there, in the warehouse, he- We don’t know what… There was nothing to indicate he’d be there, he has no connections to the smuggling ring we can think of, we didn’t expect him but he was there, and he…” She stares at McCutcheon.

Graves was there, and he cursed one of Clary’s aurors.

Clary clasps her hands together. She takes a slow breath. One of her _ juniors- _ Another deep breath…

She leans across the bed to touch Weiss’ shoulder, drawing her gaze. “I’m going to see Goodwin. Be where you feel you need to be. We’ll debrief soon.” Clary has a routine, she has an order of things that she follows when a team ends up in hospital. She _ will _ follow it today, even if she would quite like to immediately go sock Percival Graves in the jaw or hex him straight into next year.

She heads into the hallway as Weiss settles into a chair beside McCutcheon, and she’s pleased at her choice, not that she expects much else from Weiss. Taking care of the team is something she’s always tended to do.

Her other injured auror is only a few rooms over; she strides down the short stretch of hall and swings into C-11.

Bell and Cullivan are loitering in here, each sitting in one of the uncomfortable visitors’ chairs, though _ lounging _ is a more apt description for Bell’s position.

She’s chattering at Goodwin as Cullivan scoffs, but she catches sight of Clary and launches up to standing.

Clearly, she hasn’t forgotten the consequence for her behaviour last week. “Director,” she says, definitely louder than necessary.

Cullivan twists around in his own chair to look at her, and his eyes look wide and wary for a moment, but he doesn’t jump like Bell did. “D’you want the room?” he asks, and blinks slowly.

Goodness, but he still makes her think of a large cat, content to remain calm and sleepy but ever-watchful nevertheless.

“No need. I just wanted to check in before calling for a debrief.”

Bell hurries around the bed anyways, flashing a smile that is made wild by the quickness of it. “Here,” she says, “you can sit, I’ll go uh, go check in on Enakey.”

And with that she’s gone like a nervous tornado, leaving Cullivan blinking at Clary.

“Well,” Clary says, and steps a little further into the room. “Goodwin, is she-”

“Ma’am,” Goodwin mumbles. “I- I’m here!” She sticks a hand in the air and waves it about, then lets it drop back to the blanket drawn up over her waist. “I’m here.”

“Out of the field f’r a little while,” Cullivan announces. He turns back, and Clary comes to the end of the bed, wraps her hands around the footboard. “Just to be sure.”

Goodwin looks good, for being decreed out for a bit. She might be concussed, is clearly not quite right because she grins widely at Clary, gaze falling to her hands. Any second now, she’ll be- Yes, there it is, she’s reaching out a hand, fingers wiggling in Clary’s direction.

She sighs but indulges her auror, coming around to take Bell’s chair and allow her hand to be squeezed happily.

“How long did the healers say?” she asks, meeting Cullivan’s eyes.

She _ dares him _ to say something about this.

He swallows, like he hears her thought, and she lets a smile slip onto her face. “Ah, one night for sure, probably two. She was hit by some hex, fractured her wrist and got concussed the natural way, so with the healing on top of her usual meds-” He shakes his head.

Right. The first night will be to ensure no adverse reactions, the second will be if they decide to stretch the healing out further.

“Right,” she says aloud.

Goodwin hums and squeezes her fingers, then relaxes her grip enough to rub her thumb across Clary’s knuckles. She glances down, sees that Goodwin is focused on their hands, and she waits. “You saw McCutcheon, or not yet?” her auror asks, finally.

Clary smiles, but the expression quickly drops. _ Graves cursed one of her juniors. _ “I visited him first, Frey. Left Weiss in his room, and came to you.”

“Are you going to go see _ him?” _

“Pardon?”

Goodwin looks like she’s fighting with herself a little bit, duty probably twisting up against personal preferences. “Graves,” she says at last, raising big blue eyes to pin Clary in place. She’s too weak and tired to hold out the internal fight she wants to have, probably. “Are you going to go see him?”

Clary blinks at her a moment before finding her voice. “I’ll get to him later.”

Wait. Graves has been admitted to the hospital too?

Weiss did _ not _ mention that, not even in passing, or as a _ ‘hey by the way’ _ comment.

But! He isn’t one of her aurors. At this point, he should be treated as guilty, guilty of something at least. At this point, he is someone Clary could care less about, even if she’s starting to feel more and more like she’s missing a lot of information and really should sit down and get a full account of the afternoon.

Goodwin blinks, a release, and Clary glances to Cullivan. He looks thoughtful, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. He takes a breath. “I’ll grab the others?” he suggests, pushing himself up, and then he’s towering over them for just a moment. “Grab one‘a the lounges?”

“Ask,” she says, quickly so he doesn’t turn away just yet. _ “Ask _ one of the medi-wizards this time Cullivan, I mean it.”

He ducks his head and heads out, hopefully to do as she’s asked.

They usually don’t mind a troop of aurors taking over one of the small lounges, especially when Clary’s with them, but she really prefers to get permission from one of the Healers. Means they stay in good graces as well as they can, and they’re less likely to be denied the next time.

“You should be nicer,” Goodwin mumbles, tugging on her hand.

Clary sighs, but she smiles at her friend. “If I was nice all the time, half of them wouldn’t listen to me.” Goodwin makes a sad sound. She knows it’s true, or at least she knows when she’s firmly in an unaltered state of mind. “Now, I’ll have to go wrangle those others in a moment, but is there anything particular you think I should know?” A grin slides onto Goodwin’s face, and Clary adds on, quickly, “About the raid, Frey.”

Her shoulders drop, and she pouts for a moment before letting her gaze go distant. “I think...” She trails off, thinking hard by the looks of it, and Clary just sits there, quiet and waiting. “He’s- I think he was on our side.”

“That’s almost praise, coming from you.” Goodwin makes a face. Clary can’t help but laugh, just a little.

“I still don’t like him,” she says.

“Why not?”

“He flirts with you.”

Clary laughs, a fair bit. Goodwin joins in with a weak giggle after a moment, and her grip loosens.

Clary takes the opportunity to pull her hand back, sets it on Goodwin’s shoulder instead as the giggles die out. “You dislike everyone who flirts with me, is that it?” she asks.

She’s… actually almost curious.

Goodwin rolls her eyes and tugs on the edge of her blanket. “No one flirts with you,” she replies, and her words are sliding together a little bit, and she must be getting tired. “No one ‘cept him.”

“Hmm.” She’s- Well, she might be right. Clary just tends to ignore what most people consider flirting; _ most people _ have learned not to bother. “Well,” she says, drawing back her hand and standing, and Goodwin blinks up at her. “I should get to the others. We’ll debrief, and then… Then I'll deal with Graves.”

Goodwin nods. And she burrows down into the bed a little, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders, and she looks sweet and cozy. “Good luck,” she murmurs, blinking slower and slower.

Clary smiles down at her then heads for the door.

Sleep is good, sleep is when the body can spend energy on healing itself.

Sleep is the time when _ other _people solve problems, like Clary.

She exits the room, dimming the lights. And Junior Auror Enakey is waiting right in the hall there, waiting to walk her to the room they’re taking over this time. She nods, and he turns neatly to lead the way down the hall, not saying a word.

It’s fine though; it’s nice almost, walking alongside him in silence and the hospital may be a focused, mildly contained chaos on the best of days, but they feel apart from it right now.

Which lets her consider…

Graves.

She still isn’t sure what to think, and she still wants to hit him, but that… hmm, the true anger is simmering off, leaving her with the usual annoyance and vague confusion that plagues her whenever he ends up in the middle of one of their operations. It’s _ luck, _ feels like, and she’s never been able to decide if it’s good, or bad, or somewhere in between.

Maybe a recap of today will tip her thoughts one way or the other.

She isn’t confident in that.

Enakey glances to her as his pace slows, and she looks at him. He looks away quickly, but he also turns, slipping through a doorway, so they must be here-

Yes, her aurors are arranged around a table that one of them might have conjured out of a spare chair. There’s a few of them placed along the wall, sturdy, plain wood that matches the two empty chairs left at the table.

She settles in the chair closest to the door while Enakey hurries around the table to the other empty seat, between Bell and Cullivan, and he joins Bell in not quite looking at Clary.

Weiss is though, is watching patiently like she’s just waiting for the order.

“Debrief,” Clary says, meeting Weiss’ eyes and crossing her arms. She still can’t get Graves out of her mind, can’t quite get rid of the urge to smack him for hurting one of her juniors, but this is her routine, and it should be a decent distraction.

“We followed the plan and regular procedures,” Weiss starts, skipping the stuff that will certainly go into the reports but isn’t necessary to go over just now. “Everything was smooth til we got into the basement and got to poking through the rooms - found the sorts of evidence we expected, and signs of probable habitants, but no perps in the first bunch of rooms.

“Then there was a bigger space,” she continues, ”set up almost like a cargo bay. Bell and Goodwin led the way in, started throwing up shields near immediately. Goodwin ordered the juniors to stick to her and me, the others to spread out between us. Everything was goin fine before a couple more brawlers ran into the big room from a door on the other side. They started flinging spells fast, caught Goodwin off guard.”

“She was thrown back into the wall,” Cullivan pipes up. He tends to end up immediately to Goodwin’s right in battles, he probably would have been the closest to her. “McCutcheon didn’t blink an eye, just stepped back and kept firing. He was hit and stumbled, looked unsteady. I moved in to cover the two a’ them. That’s about when I realized someone aside from us was aiming at our perps.”

Weiss nods. “It was a few seconds before that for me, but yes. And once I was looking, it didn’t take long to catch a proper glimpse of Graves’ face.”

“Didn’t take long for ‘im to take most of our brawlers out,” Enakey says. He sounds a little awed at the same time as a little frightened. His gaze is firmly set on the table in front of him. “Auror Weiss set me behind her and took down the ones _ he _ didn’t get.”

Clary leans back in her chair. She can envision the series of events, nearly. She has questions, of course, but her main question is regarding the man who has once again turned up in the middle of a live investigation. “Tell me why Graves is in a Holding room,” she asks, her voice carefully even. Weiss said Graves was the one who cast the curse that took McCutcheon down, but none of them have quite explained how they came to know that.

“He turned,” Weiss says, and her expression has gone a little distant like she’s reliving it. “He mighta been hit by one of us, or nearly so, and then he turned and I saw a little of that scarf of his as he cast something in Goodwin and McCutcheon’s direction. An’ then he startled a bit and turned on the perps again. And that’s when Cullivan broke position.”

“He was babbling, almost, as the last of the brawlers fell. Talkin’ about variations an’ bein’ surprised, an’ depriving energy, he kept repeatin’ that one.” Bell taps her fingers against the table and meets Clary’s gaze. “It didn’t occur to any of us that he was tryin’ to explain a curse he’d cast. Then McCutcheon collapsed, just in the lobby here. And then there was a flurry of activity, an’ Mallow came on over to help escort perps, an’ returned to guard Graves’ room an’ apparently Graves managed to ‘splain everythin’ clearly to him. An’ then we finally got the right counter-curse.”

Well. It seems her aurors actually have something they can hold against Graves for more than fifteen minutes.

“Thanks to Graves,” Cullivan murmurs. Clary makes a questioning noise. “He described it, t’was nothing I’ve heard or seen before.” The others make sounds of agreement.

“It worked perfectly though. The kid’s condition started to turn around right away.” Weiss almost looks impressed.

Clary makes a sound - a thoughtful sound - as she stares past her aurors.

She still has questions, of course, but the biggest questions are taken care of, and she has an understanding of the whole… incident now.

“How many perps did you take in?” she asks, looking to Cullivan.

He pauses, flicks his gaze to Weiss, then looks to Clary. “Eleven,” he says, “all of em.” He sounds almost surprised. “Most’a them are languishing in Holding cells in the Woolworth already, there’s only Graves here, and one’a Goodwin’s hits that was bad enough to admit.”

“Wait,” she says, and she thinks she can understand the surprise in his voice. “Graves fought- non-fatally? Completely?”

“Seems so, boss,” Weiss confirms. She doesn’t sound surprised; rather, her tone has taken a curious turn, like that knowledge is making her rethink a conclusion or a few.

That is interesting.

But now she’s probably extracted all the information she immediately wants from her aurors, so it’s time to… “Mallow is on Graves, I assume?” There’s nods around the table, so she stands and flashes a brief smile at them all. “Your reports by the end of the day, I think,” she announces, “and do what you can with Goodwin and McCutcheon, whenever they’re awake. I’m going to go deal with your guests.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bell blurts out, and Clary lets her gaze settle heavy on the auror for just a moment before turning back to the hall.

She doesn’t mind making Bell squirm for another day or two, and honestly? Unsettling her sort of helps to clear Clary’s mind. Besides, it’s amusing.

Being vaguely amused and having a clear mind is an excellent way to walk into a conversation with Graves, anyways.

The Holding rooms are further down this hall.

They’d proven a necessity a few years back, when a suspect died in the Woolworth’s holding cells, and another two nearly so - they just aren’t equipped to provide the level of medical care some of the perpetrators they take in need. An arrangement with the nearest hospital was just logical, along with the safeguards they’d figured together and set in effect.

Two guards with auror training, and a decent knowledge of healing is an asset. One of them leaves their wand with the other and settles inside the room, to restrain the suspect-patient as necessary.

Skills in wandless magic are, of course, ideal, but she can’t spare nearly as many who are capable of that.

Though in the case of someone like Percival Graves, it might as well be a requirement.

The witch standing guard in the hallway right now is hospital staff, had been an auror for a few short years and gave it up a bit before Clary was offered the Director of Magical Security place.

The guard - Clary can’t remember her name, and she feels bad for just a moment but the witch isn’t one of her aurors, so therefore she doesn’t mind - straightens at her approach.

“Director Barillon,” she says, eyeing her rolled shirtsleeves.

Yes yes, the other witch is the picture of a proper 1920s woman, skirt and blouse and jacket, all put together. Clary is… not.

She’s Head Auror, for Merlin’s sake.

“Auror Mallow is inside?” she asks, ignoring the pointed look at her trousers.

They’re practical, and she’s a job to do that doesn’t require her to explain any of this, especially to an ex-auror, honestly.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be replacing him for a bit. Twenty minutes, perhaps?” Clary pulls her wand from the holster on her belt, offering it to the witch before she can ask.

The moment it's pulled from her grasp, she slides around and pushes open the door.

Mallow is effectively standing between her and the bed, arms crossed, head tipped just a little towards her. She almost smiles.

“Auror Mallow?” she says instead. He takes it as the invitation it’s meant to be, and turns to face her. “I’ll take the room for a bit.”

He nods without a word and strides around her.

Once he’s gone - door clicking quietly shut - the room settles around her, the tension of his figure dissipating with his departure. And she can see why he’d been tense - Graves is alert, gazing at her with those dark eyes.

She watches him back for a moment, catches the tremor in his fingers that he isn’t trying terribly hard to hide, the way he blinks a little more than necessary.

He’s still recovering from whatever her aurors had done to subdue him - funny, she had hardly thought to ask about that - but he seems quite himself, awake and aware and ever so slightly wary.

She steps closer, closer than Mallow had been standing, certainly close enough to grasp Graves’ hand if he reached up to her, but with plenty of space to move if he does.

“I'll need to check in with Junior Auror McCutchen after he wakes,” she says as an opening, and his fingers twitch as if she’s startled him. “But my understanding is that what occurred between you and my aurors was simply an instance of self defence.” Clary gazes at him steadily, doesn’t see a single flicker in his expression. “After we talked through everything,” she continues, letting her eyes slide off him a bit, “I think they even felt a little bad about it all.”

Then he reacts, huffing softly and shaking his head. “Good for them,” is all he says. She hears something like amusement and relief in his voice. She can understand, for the most part.

“I’m not saying you won’t be charged with anything this time,” she warns him. “Picquery agrees that you’re generally suspicious enough. Instances like today, with you showing up in the middle of a smuggling operation, don’t help your case.”

“If the President sees fit to persecute, who am I to object?” he murmurs, and he blinks, eyes going a little distant.

If the rumours are to be believed, Graves and Picquery had been at school together. Same year and everything.

She’s always wondered, a little bit, how that might colour their views of each other.

Her own school days don’t have much sway over her anymore; it’s been a long time, with most of a war in between then and now.

She’d been at Hogwarts anyways, immigrated to North America halfway through her schooling and her parents had found a way to make the transportation work rather than having her transfer to Ilvermorny. That means she didn’t share classes with any of her aurors, nor most of the people she interacts with on the streets or in holding cells. ICW meetings, on the other hand-

Ah, it doesn’t matter even then, generally.

She’s still gotten to know a fair number of local witches and wizards, including the one currently in front of her who continues to wreak suspicion and uncertainty among her aurors.

“Why were you even there?” she asks, rather abruptly, but he doesn’t jump. “At the warehouse, in the midst of a criminal operation?”

Graves closes his eyes and sighs. His fingers tremble as they run along the edge of the blanket as he thinks, presumably, fishing about for words to explain his presence. He opens his eyes and looks over at her, and he seems tired. More tired than even just a moment ago, before she’d asked that question. “I have…” he starts, and pauses. She raises a brow. She’s curious, kind of. “An acquaintance,” he says, settling on the word, “who is very invested in the wellbeing of magical creatures. He’d heard rumours and asked me to chase them down.” He shrugs. “Therefore.”

An _ ‘acquaintance’ _, well then. “Mm... Therefore,” she agrees.

It actually sounds quite reasonable.

She’d like to know more about an acquaintance who apparently has the power to move Percival Graves to act upon _ rumours. _

“You should let your acquaintance know that action like this steps on the DMLE’s toes,” is all she’ll say on the matter today, though.

Graves huffs, as if it’s amusing.

But now, she’s rather exhausted the immediately worthwhile questions she has, and the amount of time spent away from the paperwork waiting on her desk that she can make a reasonable argument for.

The piles will probably have grown in her absence, if Ms. Sears has been in to deliver a new batch.

“If that’s all, I have other tasks to attend to. Good day, Mister Graves.”

She gives him hardly a moment to indicate otherwise before turning for the door. At least Mallow isn’t the worst of the lot when it comes to Graves, he’ll be a satisfactory companion for the man if he doesn’t bore him to sleep first by refusing to rise to his barbs.

“She’s prettier than you are, Director.”

_ ‘She’? _

Clary turns back, curious as to where he’s heading with that train of thought. _ ‘She’ _ is Picquery, presumably, the only other witch they’ve mentioned in this little discussion. Clary tilts her head and meets Graves’ dark eyes. She can’t tell if they’re glinting with laughter or just the usual Percival Graves version of charm. “I’m not certain how you intend for me to interpret that statement, Mister Graves.”

His mouth quirks up into something near a smile. “The pretty faces end up in politics, sooner or later. The smart ones are those who get the real work done.”

“I'm sure you know there is much more to Seraphina Picquery than a pretty face.”

He makes a thoughtful sound, then- “You would know about being more than pretty, wouldn’t you?”

She tries not to, but it’s been a stressful flurry of an afternoon, and she can’t quite help the smile that slips onto her face. Graves is clever with his compliments, no two ways about it, and the line between simple compliment and baseless flirting lies in a different place with this man than most others. She nods, smile widening. “Careful, or next time I really might let them throw you somewhere dark and cold for more than an hour or two.”

He huffs a chuckle, and turns to look at her. He looks quite prepared to engage her in this almost-flirting for a while longer, so Clary takes a step back.

“I’ll see you around I’m sure, Mister Graves,” she says, waving her hand to refill the glass on the bedside table from the nearby pitcher. And then she turns once more, taking even strides to the door, not so fast as to be interpreted as running away but evidently purposeful, and clearly done with Graves for the day.

He takes the hint, it would seem, and does not try to tempt her back.

Cullivan is waiting outside the room, poised to hurry into it while Mallow is lounging against the wall. They must have decided to change shifts, then.

Clary pauses, grasping Cullivan’s arm and tilting her head up to catch his eyes. “Try not to talk to him,” she suggests. “He tends to read willingness to engage in conversation as interest, of one sort or another.” Cullivan pales a little, but nods and straightens his shoulders before heading in.

She smiles. Mallow raises his brows, as if questioning her while handing her wand back.

“A healthy dose of apprehension hasn’t hurt any of you yet,” is all she says to him before setting out towards the lobby.

She’s got paperwork to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _promise_ Newt shows up in the next chapter <strike>(so long as i don't move things around too much)</strike>, and not just as a passing mention

**Author's Note:**

> tune in next time for suspicious aurors, tired Clary, and (mostly) amused Graves.


End file.
